


Uh, What?

by spacebars



Category: South Park
Genre: Character Study, Self-Doubt, WIP, clyde needs love, uh, will update in future?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 21:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17067260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebars/pseuds/spacebars
Summary: Character Studies! All connected to each other.updates spontaneously.





	Uh, What?

**Author's Note:**

> hey cookies! its spacebars! have some character studies! this will be updated whenever i can stop procrastinating
> 
> so, here is this shitty fic? anyway, i need to go back and reread this, and fix it so that might happen soon
> 
> enjoy!

“Don't be fuckin’ assholes. Can you not bring me or my weight into your fuckin’ fight?” Clyde glared angrily at Stan Marsh, who was pissed off (like usual) at Cartman. This had nothing to do with Clyde, who was nothing more than a bystander, until Stan brought up weight, and fucking compared him to Cartman. What the fuck did he have to do with anything that motherfucker did? It’s been years since Craig and his gang had played whatever game Cartman came up with. Therefor, it’s also been years since Clyde really had anything to do with Cartman and his friends, since Craig had decided that he wasn't worth shit and the gang avoided their trouble at all costs.

 

So normally Clyde wouldn't give two shits, but seriously? He was barely any fatter than the fucking rest of the fucking kids, and his extra pudge was good for his linebacker position. He didn't give any shits about Eric Cartman, so being dragged into their asshole fights, and being compared to that fuckface? Hell no.

 

Should he care about the other comments, such as the bashing on Kyle’s religion/heritage? Should he care about how Cartman treated Butters, or everyone else for that matter? Probably, but he really didn't. He was a simple man, and until Eric Cartman insulted or fucked with him personally, Clyde would not care. He had other things to deal with, and besides, he knew Kyle, and anyone else insulted by Cartman’s shit could handle the asshole. 

 

What bothered him was the fact they  _ continued  _ to this fucking day to make awful comments about his weight. To his face! he hated when people threw weight comments around, and he’s said over and over that he wasn't fat! He was just big boned, and in return he was just a bit more pudgy. He had suffered freshman year when started skipping meals to lose some weight, because of shitty comments that usually Stan threw his way, through when he thought about it, Stan was probably just threatened, both boys had been practically fighting for a spot on varsity the next year. But that didn't make what Stan said or did ok. Clyde landed in the fucking hospital, due to collapsing during a game.

 

Craig had been pissed. Yelled at him for a good while, which, if the hospitalization had not already, and really put it in perspective.  _ He had fucked up _ . Craig was the most monotonous person Clyde knew. Token had to actually force Craig to leave, to go calm down. His dad had (understandably) been upset, ruffling his hair when Clyde asked if he was ok (the dark circles under his father’s eyes told him otherwise) and gripping his hand tightly, as if daring anyone to take his son. His sister took time off work and came from Denver just for him, and when she arrived she hugged him tightly and never let him out of her sight.

 

Craig and Token, because his father decided not to follow what the doctor had said and tried forcing Clyde to eat large amounts at each meal, both helped Clyde set up a schedule. Small things. Small meals and small snacks in between. Enough to get him through the day. It wasn’t the best, but it helped. A lot. He was better now, eating wise, and truly he had his best friends to thank for that.

 

The point though (he was getting off track a bit) was that no one messed with him, and no one insulted anyone about being fat when he was around. Cartman or not. He had to defend his honor. (That and Cartman’s screeches were getting shriller by the second and he could NOT deal with that)

 

“Fuck off, Clyde. Just because you’re fat too doesn't mean you have to defend this fat fuck.” Stan snapped. Clyde grimaced, but he kept his posture. He was not letting Stan and Kyle mess with him today. It was monday, and monday meant extra long football practice, working five-thirty to eight shift at Tweak Bros, shitty takeout eaten alone for dinner because his dad was working late, chores and staying up late finishing up homework he needed to do to keep his college scholarship. If the University of Northern Colorado wanted to give him a full ride for two years, he sure as hell was gonna take it. So yeah, monday was not meant for fuckwads like Stan Marsh making his mood worst. Especially when tomorrow was the worst day of the whole year for Clyde and his family.

 

I mean, sure, he was friends with Stan, Kyle, and Kenny, but they definitely weren't close. And the situation at the moment was proof of that. He didn't say anything back, he didn't even move a muscle because fuck he probably would have  _ punched  _ the idiot to let go of his frustrations and anger, but he didn't because a teacher had decided this was a good time to walk past and the last thing he needed was detention for starting shit, playoffs were next week for christ’s sake. Stan narrowed his eyes. He huffed, clearly ready to start baiting into a fight, because that’s what the school’s star quarterback  _ did,  _ he fought anyone who so much as looked at him funny, then never got himself benched for more than a practice or two. Kyle had obviously sensed this, because he tugged gently on Stan’s arm, whispering something in his ear. Stan gave Clyde one shitty insult before he let his best friend tug him away to class, Kenny hot on their trail. Cartman screamed a not at all repeatable Jew insult at their retreating backs before sauntering away to his own third period.

 

Clyde’s upper lip twitched as he noticed everyone around him, whispering and avoiding eye contact, as they all shuffled to class. Great. He popped up the hood of his varsity jacket and did what his best friend knew best, flipping the bird at everyone, ignoring the tears prickling at the back of his eyes. He really needed a smoke right now.

 

He slipped out of the school, making his way to the one spot on the entire campus where you wouldn’t get caught skipping. There were security cameras everywhere, except for behind the dumpsters, where the fenced in heating and cooling systems resided, complete with a roof so the shitty Colorado mountain weather didn't fuck with the machinery. The school’s police officer that acted as the security guard, Officer Smithfield, turned a blind eye, saying he skipped a lot in high school, and he was only there for making sure kids didn't kill each other. Though Clyde was sure he didn't know that underage smoking was a thing that was happening back there.

 

The spot was common knowledge among the popular crowd of the school, and was very well kept, If you were an underclassmen, the chances of you knowing without being a part of a more popular, older crowd was very slim. Clyde didn't know this spot even existed until his sophomore year, when he bumped up to varsity, one of the older football team members had showed him one day during lunch after he “proved himself” at a party.

 

There was a padlock on the gate, but the after-school janitor hid a spare under the light by the kitchen’s back door right next to it. How somebody found the key was beyond Clyde, but hell was he thankful. It was nice to escape school for an hour.

 

The Goths typically took residence there during and after lunch and after school, but every so often you could find one or two loitering around, smoking, drinking, writing shitty “deep” poems or whatever they did throughout the day. Henrietta though, was always there.

 

The Goths had expanded a bit in numbers, which made sense, the high school they went to was a town over, which schooled not only the South Park kids, but the kids from Beaverton, where the middle school was. Henrietta had managed to get the Goth kids from all three towns under her reign, as well as somehow gaining alliances with the Vamps, and even some the emo and scene kids. What the alliance was for, the world will never know. She also managed to gain control of the cigarette distribution of the high school, selling from her spot in the back, gaining her a lot of control. Anyone she deemed “unworthy” of her time and cigarettes that had a problem with her were scared off by the Vamps. 

 

Either the janitors never checked the heating and cooling systems, or they didn't care, for the area was completely taken over. For starters, no matter if school was out, at least one or two of the Goths were fucking there at all times, and after practice, no matter what sport was in season, a few jocks could be found dicking around there too, the place reeked like smoke and there were ashtrays and cigarette butts everywhere. There was even furniture!  A black, rusted iron bench (Clyde suspected it came from a cemetary, it had that vibe) sat pushed alongside a giant rumbling machine-thing. A few scratched up folding chairs were placed strategically around a few tall crates. A boombox that played a ton of depressing, edgy music, and of course, Henrietta always sat upon her throne, a black circular chair with a giant cushion. Next to her was a blanket, spread out, where her posse usually sat when they were loitering around. Spray-painted on the brick wall in red was an upside down pentagram, because yes there is a difference between a right side up and an upside down pentagram, and a difference between a pentacle and a pentagram. As a satanist and a witch, Henrietta made sure anyone and everyone who bothered to listen to her talk about her rituals knew that.

 

At first, the Goths hadn’t allowed anyone to go over there, they didn't want the place tainted by conformists or some shit, but Henrietta eased up. Unless you were buying cigarettes off her, you wouldn't talk to them, and they wouldn't talk to you unless it was something that sparked their interest. That was the rule, and the blockheaded students respected that.

 

Henrietta had thinned out a bit over the years, though she was still the fattest female kid in South Park. She seemed healthier, though her way of getting there, Clyde suspected, was not at all healthy in the slightest, judging from his own experience. 

 

She had bleached streaks in her hair, creating a black and white effect, and had grown it out. She often pulled it back in two thick braids underneath a black beanie. Today she had decided to wear a black dress under her favorite oversized black trench coat that had the sleeves rolled up just to her wrists, black fishnets, thick high heeled mary janes, black fingerless gloves (which were lace and delicate looking, not all matching the terrifying look she donned everyday), and a thick silver chain around her neck, a cross pendant dangling off of it. Her makeup, like usual was heavily applied. Thick black wings of eyeliner so sharp it could cut, just a small amount black eyeshadow, layers and layers of mascara, and her trademark black lipstick. She was very very pretty, something Clyde would always admit even if he didn't care about staying on her good side, and she was very very scary. 

 

He often found himself staring at her. He didn't have a crush on her, he liked Bebe, whether they were dating or not, but something about Henrietta was interesting. Mesmerizing. She was not a chatty person at all, the only exception was when she swindled someone into buying extra cigs or when she talked about her witchcraft and satanic beliefs. She hated being hot, so on the sunnier days she would carry around a beautiful lace parasol and a hand fan, which was made from delicate black lace as well. She once smacked Cartman so hard he slammed into the lockers with her parasol, when he made some snide comment about her. She was beautiful, interesting, and she was fucking terrifying.

 

Since Clyde had a free period during third on mondays, wednesdays and fridays, he often found himself sitting back there in the spot, smoking a cigarette (and no more than one, Henrietta sold packs for a pretty penny and he couldn't afford to blow through them) and watching her. Brushing her hair, writing in her thick black journal, smoking her own cigarette, holding her fancy cigarette holder between her fingers, her nails painted a shocking shiny black that stood out among her pale skin. He was more than certain she knew he watched her, she’s caught him staring a few times, but she made no effort to let him know, or to make him stop. She went about her business as usual, and he went about his. 

 

Sometimes Kenny, who’s schedule was pretty similar to his, would join Clyde, Henrietta, and whoever else was there, with his separate ragtag gang of delinquents (a group of kids from Beaverton), and would smoke his own cigarettes or a blunt. Maybe a joint, it truly depended on whatever he managed to swipe off his parents or the shitty people staying in his garage according to Kenny. Those days were pretty ok, Kenny was a chatterbox when high, and would talk his ear off, and Clyde actually understood what he was saying without having to process it because he didn't have his parka and/or his scarf covering his mouth. 

 

Kenny traded his shabby orange snow pants that matched his parka years ago, instead wearing jeans or sweatpants that most likely belonged to his dad and/or brother. Hell, Kenny had ditched his original jacket in middle school, when it stopped fitting, and started wearing a newer parka, one he found in Denver when helping his dad find a job. He decorated it with patches that Karen made in her embroidery class that she took in the community center, flowers, hearts and smiley faces of all shapes, colors and sizes. Kenny’s love for brighter “feminine” colors was no secret, if Princess Kenny or the purple and pink parkas he had (but rarely found the courage to wear) when he was younger had anything to say. His little sister was probably a huge contribution to it as well, for Kenny loved telling stories about having fashion shows with her, having girl’s nights where Kenny joined Karen and her friend Ruby during a sleepover, or them painting each other’s nails. Kenny always talked about his sister, his classes, or stupid shit Cartman did. Though on rare occasions he would talk about these dreams where he died in various and painful ways. Clyde thought they were too detailed to just be dreams (He had too many fuzzy memories of Kenny in near-death experiences with so many details that don't add up), but Kenny never wanted to talk about it after and he didn't want to intrude. Having Kenny and his stories around was not a bad thing, it was actually pretty nice, Clyde thought, being around someone who talked as much as he did. 

 

He wasn't really sure what made him truly start smoking, but he didn't really want to stop. He knew when he started, it was when one of the Goths, Michael, let him bum a smoke back in sophomore year. Since they were all too fucking terrifying, he lit and tried it. It was fucking awful, he coughed his lungs out and his throat felt raw. He nearly cried. But Michael had given him a very uncharacteristic smile, Henrietta told him to make himself at home, he was safe there. Firkle had told him they wouldn't judge him, even if he was a conformist, he was one of them.

 

He tried going goth last year, but he didn't really like the bland monotonous shades of black and gray, or anything that was dark enough that it could pass as black if it was a few shades darker. And the baseball team had made fun of him. They were assholes. The only team he was on that he truly didn't mind was the basketball team, because they were usually pretty nice and Kyle, the jv team captain during sophomore year and the varsity captain this year, had matured over the years and wouldn't really let that bullshit slide.

 

Clyde knew he had his best friends, the Goths in no way would replace them, they weren't even his friends in all honesty, but he didn't mind being with them. They liked him enough that they kept him around and didn't glare at him or make fun of him like they did with the other idiots who bought smokes off them or hung around. It was more of a mutual understanding. Pete didn't mind if Clyde came and sat around or asked them to read their poems, Michael was willing to sit and listen when he wanted to talk, Firkle liked that he had someone else to complain about his classmates and the other conformists to, and Henrietta was kind enough to take a dollar off the price for him. No they weren't friends, but they were there for him and sometimes that was easier than his best friends.

 

Clyde was about halfway through his cigarette, idly scrolling through instagram when he heard the unmistakable, monotonous voice beside him.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Craig asked. Clyde yelped  _ very  _ loudly, startling Henrietta, the only other person there, and dropping the cigarette. Craig stepped on the butt, putting it out.

 

“Craig, holy shit. Where did you even come from?” He gasped, running a hand through his hair. 

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Craig repeated, a bit more forcefully. Clyde shrugged. Craig sighed, and slid down next to him. He leaned his head back, shutting his eyes. “It’s the anniversary tomorrow, right?” His voice was soft.

 

Clyde let out a deep breathe, one he didn't realize he had been holding. “Yeah.”

 

Craig didn't say anything else.

 

“He’s not even gonna be home tomorrow, and my sister couldn't take time off to be with me.” Clyde muttered.

 

“Come over after school tomorrow. Skip practice and call in sick to work. You can bring some clothes and we’ll have a sleepover and go to school in the morning.”

 

“Craig-”

 

“Good, it's settled.” Craig stood up, holding out a hand. “Since that cigarette is put out, let's go find Tweek and Token. We’ll tell them our plan.”

 

Clyde graciously took his hand, letting the taller boy hoist him up to his feet. As Craig led him away, he smiled at Henrietta and waved. She didn't smile or wave back, but she did watch as they left, and Clyde took that as a win.

 

They went to the library, where Token and Craig’s boyfriend Tweek were settled at a desk, papers spread out in front of them.

 

“What if we tried putting the cavalry in the back? To make more space for the wagons?” Token said, pointing to a paper. “That way we can-”

 

“No, that wouldn’t work, We need the cavalry flanked around the whole group. We should put the infantry in the back.” Tweek tugged a lock of hair and pointed at a different piece of paper, showing him something to prove his point.

 

“What are you guys doing?” Craig cut him off, throwing his bag down and slumping into the chair next to Tweek. Clyde took the seat next to Token, setting his bag down besides him.

 

Tweek gave Craig a quick peck on the cheek before answering “We have to create a battle strategy against this army here-” He held up a small packet, it had scribbled sentences and highlighter marked all over the front page. “-using this information that we “gathered” from previous battles.” He explained.

 

Tweek had mellowed out since Clyde first met him, which was very obvious. To this day his anxiety still ran amok, his nervous twitches and occasional screeches never really got better. His hair was always a mess and the poor boy still couldn't button a shirt properly (it didn't matter though because he constantly stole Craig’s thick hoodies and tshirts, much to his boyfriend’s dismay) but he was better. His parents had been found guilty of using meth in their coffee, and were charged with illegal drug abuse and child abuse and neglection. Tweak Bros. Coffee was given to the family’s business partner (an old family friend), and the Tweaks were forced to go to rehab in order to avoid prison and gain custody back of Tweek. Tweek had to go live with his aunt in Arizona for two years, while his parents were in rehab. He had to see a doctor every few days, and see a therapist every friday. He started taking medicine too. When his parents got out, they had to take classes, and do therapy together. After another year passed by, in Tweek’s freshman year they regained custody of him and moved back to South Park, right back into their old house. They managed to get Tweak Bros. running again, with a legally binding contract to the state that an officer was to search the store every month and make sure that there were no longer any drugs involved.

 

Tweek hated anyone knowing how his own withdrawal went, his parent’s was widely known through town, South Park loved gossip. The only person that truly knew was Craig, his parents allowing him to leave to see Tweek when he was hospitalized, and was allowed to take the train from Denver on the weekends. Over the summers he stayed for a whole month, Tweek’s aunt absolutely adored him and never minded when he stayed. Clyde knew Tweek told Craig everything that happened, and that was good enough for him. He knew a little, Tweek talked about it a bit but Clyde wasn't one to pry.

 

“Our AP World History final is to organize the battle with a partner.” Token added. “We don't need a successful plan, we just need enough points in a “battle” against the teacher and we get an A.”

 

Craig hummed. Taking this opportunity (Token and Tweek would have plenty of time to do the project, Token and Craig often found themselves at Tweak Bros after school to do homework and hang out with Tweek and Clyde during their shifts) Clyde pulled his binder out of his bag and let it fall on the table with a thunk. Tweek jumped, eyeing the binder nervously. “Since someone interrupted my relaxing break-” Clyde started.

 

“You were smoking behind the kitchen with Henrietta Biggle” Craig interjected, his voice as monotonous as ever, his eye twitching.

 

“-I might as well get started on my calculus assignment. So Token, help me” He finished. Then he stuck his tongue out. “I wasn't smoking  _ with  _ Henrietta, I was smoking and she happened to be there too.”

 

“You were smoking again?” Token asked. Clyde bit his lip. “I thought you stopped over the summer.”

 

“I did. Ish? I tried.” He sighed and let his head fall on top of his binder. “I'm really tired and it's nice to just smoke for like 5 minutes and pretend I’m not stressed out.”

 

Craig hummed again. “Well maybe if you didn't stay up until one doing your homework you wouldn't be so tired when you wake up.”

 

“I don't have time to do it earlier. Too busy with practice,  _ we made it to the playoffs,  _ and I work until eight.”

 

Token scooted his chair closer to the table. “So what do you need help with?” He asked, ending that conversation.

 

Clyde appreciated his best friends. Token knew he didn't want to talk about it. Craig was harder sometimes, he hardly understood emotions (which caused plenty of problems for him and Tweek but they worked it out.) and had trouble when it came to social and emotional cues. He wasn't afraid to straight up be blunt and tough. Token on the other hand eased his way into things. He was smart, he had all A’s, a 5.0 gpa thanks to his  AP schedule. He understood when Clyde was ready to shut down, when Clyde didn't want to open up. So while Token was concerned about the smoking, he wouldn't bring it up until he thought Clyde needed it. And Clyde was thankful. So fucking thankful. He was so happy that Craig’s family found no reason to leave, and Token’s family not taking their tons of money and finding a better place to live. He wouldn't have survived this long in shitty old South Park without them.

 

Token helped him do a few problems that he had the most trouble on, alternating between Tweek (who was far too happy about the fact that he somehow ended up close enough to Craig he might as well be in his lap) and their assignment. He managed to understand what he was supposed to do, and by the time the bell rang, signifying the end of third, and thus the end of the senior free period, he managed to get half of the paper done.

 

“Thanks Toke.” He grinned. Token nodded, packing his papers up. Tweek gave Craig a (long) kiss on the lips before gathering his stuff and slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder.

 

“Bye!” He called, waving. Clyde waved back, Craig gave him a dopey smile, and Tweek was gone, dashing into the sea of students towards his lunchtime club meeting.

 

Craig snapped the straps of his bag, rocking back and forth on his feet. His mouth was open, his tongue running back and forth over the bright green braces, catching the light. It was a habit he picked up when he got his braces freshman year. They were gonna come off in November, if Craig was lucky. Clyde likes teasing him about the color green, Tweek had offhandedly mentioned his favorite color (and his eye color for that matter) was green.

 

“I have to stop by my locker real quick.” Token said as they all made their way to lunch.

 

Craig hummed (he liked doing that in place of replying, he was truly a man of simplicity) and Clyde nodded. “Ok.”

 

Lunch was a crazy affair, all four grades released after third period into the madhouse known as the cafeteria. The lunch lines were long, so the boys started a tradition of grabbing whatever for lunch from home and spreading the food out among them. Clyde didn't have lunch money anyways, he was saving up and his dad said it was cheaper to just bring lunch from home. So instead of leaving him out the boys all brought lunch.

 

They talked as they ate (Dr. Peppers that Clyde snagged from his fridge, some weird roast beef sandwiches that Token’s chef made him for lunch and a bag of chips that Craig had to wrestle from his little sister. Sour cream and onion, the Tucker sibling’s favorite), their conversation was random. Craig talked about some Red Racer reboot coming to netflix soon and Stripe (#7). Token soon started talking about a different show, Craig arguing with him. Jimmy, a table mate and a member of their gang, even if they weren't super close, joined in. Clyde didn't say much, and he suspected both Craig and Token noticed but neither made an effort to mention it.

 

He threw away his trash when the bell rang, and grabbed his bag. He hugged Craig (a little tighter then normal, but he needed it) and punched Token on the arm when he made a bad joke.

 

“See ya.” Token said. Craig hummed. Clyde waved and weaved his way through the madhouse to class.

 

o0o

 

Football practice was a nightmare. The coach kept getting irritated, running so many drills and conditioning as punishment that Clyde felt like jello when it was finally over. He got in the showers, scrubbing the grime, sweat and mud off of himself. The team was a loud bunch, chattering and screaming as they goofed around. He gritted his teeth and turned the shower off. He’ll be out of there soon.

 

“-hen the fatass got defended by Clyde.” Stan Marsh’s voice seemed to ring out above the rest of the noisy team as everyone started packing up in the locker room. Clyde didn't want to deal with that bullshit, he knew that Stan was baiting him again. Probably because he was petty and pissy about that morning. Clyde just wanted to get his ass to work. So he kept his mouth shut and focused on pulling his uniformed shirt on, ignoring his asshole teammates. 

 

“Is that true Donovan? You defended Eric fucking Cartman?” Some asshole called out, causing everyone to hoot in laughter. “Shit man, I didn't know you fatties were friends.”

 

Something in Clyde snapped. God he just wanted to break down and cry, he was tired, his smoke break had been interrupted and for fuck’s sake tomorrow was the god damn ten year anniversary of his mother’s death. He was hungry, he justed wanted her home cooked meals again, preferably her tacos, and these assholes were just making him  _ angrier.  _

 

As the anger swarmed over him, he marched right over to where Stan stood laughing with a group of ass-kissing benchwarmers surrounding him.  _ He was gonna be in so much trouble.  _ He pulled his fist back, then launched that sucker right into Stan’s nose.

 

“I am not fucking fat.” He said, his voice surprisingly quiet, but dripping with malice and anger. He ignored the warm tears prickling and burning in the back of his eyes, and the pain in his knuckles as he continued. “I didn't  _ defend  _ Cartman, he’s a piece of shit. I simply fucking asked for you not to mention my weight or bring me into your fight.” 

 

He was fucking thankful he had put pants and his shoes on before his shirt, because as fast as he could, he threw the rest of his gear into his duffel, slammed his locker shut, grabbed his school bag and stormed out.

 

The first thing he did when he got to his car was puke in the bushes. The second was scream. He screamed until his voice gave out and his throat was raw, glad that no one else came out of the school as he let it out.

 

“Holy shit dude. You ok?” 

 

God fucking damn it. Clyde turned to face the speaker, his eyes wide. He coughed, then shrugged. “Not really? But uh, I kinda punched Stan because he was being a dick again and I might have broken his nose? He’s in the locker room.” His voice was weak now. Whatever. “Can you tell him I’m sorry? I’m just frustrated and I took it out on him and his nose.”

 

Kyle Broflovski swore under his breath, shutting his car door, where he had been waiting for his best friend. “That dumbass. I told him you weren’t worth it.” He muttered. “Yeah, I’ll tell him. Thanks for letting me know, I’ll make sure he doesn't come after you too much.” Kyle gave a quick salute, before wandering into the school. 

 

Clyde was so tired.

 

He shot a quick text to his dad saying he was headed to work, then started up his car. Her name was Rose, she belonged to his mother. Once upon a time she was brand new, shining a stunning red color,  _ “Like a rose.” _ his mother had told him, hence the name. Now it was a dingy old thing, it had rusted away under a sheet, pulled up on the side of his house. His mother lost her license shortly after buying it. The doctor said her tumor was affecting too much for it to be safe. Rose sat for almost nine years, maybe eight, until Clyde got his license and paid Kenny three hundred dollars to help him get it running again. Kenny was very handy, having to fix his own beater car he stole and hotwired (until he broke the drawer in the dash and found the key, though the car sometimes refused to turn on with it). It started right back up, and Clyde decided to keep her the faded red that she was. It gave her character.

 

He pulled out of the school, drove along the roads until he turned out of town. South Park was three miles away, a good 5 minutes max. He reached over, turning on his stereo.

 

Clyde was so, so tired.

 

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